Friday, October 31, 2014

Halloween Treat! Preview Of "The World: According to Rachael"

Happy Halloween! Here's a little treat - no tricks. This is your first The World: According to Rachael teaser. Enjoy!

“Let’s
be clear,” I say as my way of a greeting as I slide into the backseat of the
black government-owned car waiting outside my townhome. “If your hand so much
as brushes across my behind again, I’ll use my five-inch spiked heel and will
drive it into your big toe with the intention of snapping the bone. Got it?”

Roan
Perez nods as a small smile curls his full lips. “I love it when you’re feisty.
Gives me a preview of what I’ll get to tame when you finally let me in those
sexy panties I’m sure that you’re wearing.”

I
all but hug the passenger door. “You’re an asshole.” I turn and spit in his
direction, “I’d rather forgo sex with another human being for the rest of my
life than let you near my panties.”

That’s
not entirely true. I hate Roan Perez, but my dating life is non-existent. I’ve
toyed with the idea of making Roan my next “let’s just have sex, no strings
attached” relationship. No, not relationship. That implies that it could
possibly lead to something more, which will happen when pigs fly. One-night
stand? No. That has more of a passionate, I-want-you-now connotation. Mutual
exchange of orgasms? Yes. That’s the right term. I should add the word
“planned” in front. So I’ve considered a planned mutual exchange of orgasms
with Roan.

Roan
Perez was fortunate enough to be born at just the right planetary alignment so
that he is able to spew nonsense, but the rest of the world only hears pure
genius. It’s seriously a gift that the guy has. He built the most successful
Hispanic-targeted advertising agency in the country. By the way, the only thing
Hispanic about him is his last name, from a stepfather who adopted him when he
was five. Every Fortune 100 company is mentioned on his About Us page on his Web site. Five years ago, he sold his share in
the agency to his partners and started a Hispanic affairs consulting group here
in D.C. Unfortunately, it seems that his gift is in high demand. Every
candidate who desires to dip their big toe in politics is after two untapped
demographics—the
Hispanic vote, and voters under the age of thirty.

“An
asshole that your boss respects,” he says with a satisfied shrug. “We look good
together . . . Even Page Six thinks so.”

My
boss seems to believe that Roan will be able to sell his immigration reform
plan to not only congress, but also the American people. We’re placing a lot of
stock in this yahoo.

Why
am I sitting in a government-owned town car in a black cocktail dress with the
biggest jerk on the planet? It’s simple. Politics. Roan is consistently on the
Most Eligible Bachelor list and the Most Influential list, and meetings with
his consulting firm are considered golden tickets. This is Washington, people.
Nothing, and I do mean nothing is
done without an ulterior motive.

I
despise the man, but we use each other frequently for photo-opp purposes at
nonsense events, such as the one that we’re headed to now. It looks good for
the White House to be consulting with such an influential man. Roan’s
credibility and hourly rate is boosted when he mentions that he has the White
House’s ear. It’s a win/win situation for everyone involved, except for me, who
has to deal with his arrogance.

“Here’s
the scoop,” I say clutching my black beaded bag as if it could be used as a
weapon. “We’re going to hold hands as we walk the red carpet. We’ll do the
standard posing business. You’ll keep your hand on my back, not my ass, got
it?” I glare at him.

The
bastard just smirks, one eyebrow raised toward his perfectly-coiffed hair.

“We’ll
walk inside and pose for a few pictures with the new exhibit. I have plans at
nine o’clock at the White House, so don’t expect me to hang on your arm all
night long like one of your sluts.”

“What
plans?” His eyes brighten and I know that it’s because he has a glimmer of hope
that he might be able to score a social invite to hang out with the President.

I’m
kicking myself for even saying anything. “Plans that don’t include you,” I
reply tartly.

“You’re
the White House Chief of Staff. Score me an invite, Rach . . .” he says in a
goading voice as he leers toward me.

Fortunately,
we arrive at the Smithsonian, which ends this conversation. I slip my game face
on and wait for the car door to swing open. Roan steps out first, buttoning his
black suit jacket, and I get an unguarded moment to admire the beauty of the
man.

He’s
in his mid-forties with milk-chocolate salt-and-peppered hair, and eyes that
can only be described as aquamarine. Roan is always clean-shaven and impeccably
dressed. It’s such a shame that his beautiful outside is matched only by his
ugly insides, but he does have a nice bulge in his pants. Probably a pair of socks.

He
reaches for my hand, and I offer it to him. With the grace and charm of a suave
lover, he helps me out of the vehicle, giving a wave to the reporters.

His
palm rests just where I asked it to stay as we make our way along the red
carpet.

The
Vice-President was supposed to be in attendance to dedicate the new Smithsonian
Exhibit this evening, but a campaign opportunity arose, so he asked me to cover
for him. Just another day doing my job.

Roan
and I stop in front of the backdrop and pose while the cameras snap away. Like
the pros that we are, we turn in different directions, making sure that the
photographers get every angle. Right before Roan steps out of the shot so I can
be photographed solo, he leans in and whispers in my ear, “Your hot little ass
will look gorgeous laid out underneath me on my white sheets.” Then, he
discreetly runs his tongue over the shell of my ear.

Goose
bumps plague my arms at his dirty words. I loathe Roan as a human being, but
there isn’t a girl in the world that can tell her body not to respond to his
charisma.

I’m
sure that the photographers got a great candid shot of my shocked face.

There
are so many things that I should say to him as we make our way into the museum.
I war between taking him up on his offer—because let’s face facts,
my sex life is nonexistent—and telling him that his little stunt has
earned him banishment as my date ever again.

What
do I do? Nothing. I just silently allow him to escort me into the museum where
we are both thankfully bombarded with guests attending the function. I am not
forced to discuss his transgression, and fortunately, we’re able to separate.

I
turn my attention to my reason for being here—networking on behalf of
the President. Time passes quickly, and I don’t see Roan again until he’s
sneaking off with one of the waitresses who appears to have been hired for her
large assets rather than her drink-passing skills. She has already spilled a
tray of crab cakes, and dumped a soda in some poor guy’s lap.

I
make my speech about the President’s commitment to preserving our nation’s
history, pose for pictures with an oversized red ribbon, and ceremonially hold
a gigantic pair of silver scissors that are larger than I am. The curtain falls
as the guests begin to move in closer for a better look.

That’s
my cue to slip out. Lou, the Secret Service agent assigned to me, knows the
drill. I lock eyes with him. He moves through the crowd and escorts me to the
waiting town car. Roan will find his own way home, probably with the waitress
in tow. He’s one of the many unfortunate bullet points of my job description.

The
Smithsonian is not too far from the White House. If I didn’t have on
ridiculously high heels, I would suggest that Lou and I walk. It’s unseasonably
warm in D.C. for the beginning of November, and it happens to be a lovely,
clear night.

Lou
drops me off at the employee entrance, and I head straight for my office to change
out of this constrictive cocktail dress and into my casual clothes, which are
much more appropriate for this evening. On Friday, I’d left a pair of jeans, a
green sweater, and brown leather boots inside the closet in my office suite.

Opening
the door, I grab my duffle bag, and carry it into the bathroom that’s attached
to my office. Quickly, I remove my clothes from the bag and lay them out on the
countertop by the sink.

Next,
I kick off my heels. One of the black weapons lands near the door. The other
one hits the wall. I fantasize for just a brief moment how it would feel to
break Roan’s toe as punishment for his red carpet transgressions. I’d get to
watch him walk with a limp. That’s sick,
Rachael. Stop it. I shake my head to clear the ugly thoughts, and focus on
getting dressed for an evening with the First Family.

This
gorgeous cocktail dress has an unfortunate closure, but because I live alone,
I’ve mastered the art of contorting my body so I can zip and unzip my own
dresses. In fact, the few times that I do get to watch a movie or TV show and
the main character asks her partner to unzip her dress, I almost gag. In the
real world, us single girls list that as a survival skill.

I
hang the dress on a wooden hanger that I keep in my bathroom for just such
occasions, and place my sleek weapons/heels in the duffle bag. I enter a
reminder in my phone to grab the dress and shoes on my way home tonight. The
dress is on loan from a boutique. It’s important that it is returned in a
timely manner so they’ll let me borrow another formal dress for my next event.

I
do a quick check in the mirror to make sure that I look presentable. My
platinum-blond hair is still in a severe knot at the nape of my neck, and I
have on too much makeup for my casual outfit, but it will just have to do.

I
exit my home-away-from-home, and make my way through the White House. This is a
very familiar walk for me.

“Good
evening, ma’am,” Samuel says as I near the double doors he’s guarding. I like
him. He’s about the size of a house, poker-faced, and does his job—well.
That’s a huge positive in my eyes. Finding people who are good at what they do
is a rarity.

“Samuel.”
I nod in his direction as I stop in front of the entrance to the First Family’s
private living quarters. “The President and First Lady are expecting me.”

“Yes,
ma’am,” he confirms as he double-checks the typed list. “Just a moment. There’s
another guest who’ll be here shortly.”

“Oh,
okay,” I reply a bit perplexed. I’m not usually kept waiting. Glancing at my
watch, I note that I’m right on time—nine o’clock.

“Hi,”
a confused male voice says behind me. “Is this where I’m supposed to be? This
place is a maze.”

“Graham
Jackson?” Samuel asks.

“Yes,”
the voice replies.

The
smell of Ivory soap with a hint of woodsy cologne causes me to turn my head
just enough to check out the man entering my peripheral vision.

This guy is way too pretty.

He
offers me his hand when he arrives at the double doors. “Graham Jackson. I’m
Drake’s lacrosse coach and history teacher.” He looks like he should be
starring on some contrived soap opera instead of teaching and coaching high
school kids. He’s wearing dark jeans that appear to have been painted on his
body. I might actually see the outline of his thigh muscles. His white,
tucked-in Brooks Brothers polo accentuates his dark olive complexion. His wavy
mahogany hair falls nicely against his prominent cheekbones, and shows off his
strong jaw. He’s maybe in his early thirties, or he could be in his late
twenties.

But
then he smiles. His clear blue eyes light up, and one single dimple appears
under his right eye. Is this guy for real? Something that I’ve learned in my
thirty-eight years on this planet is if they’re pretty, they’re either gay or
way too high maintenance for my taste.

“Rachael
Early, White House Chief of Staff,” I reply as I shake his hand. I bet all his
female students have had at least one wet dream starring their history teacher.

“I
know,” he says with a shy smile and a dip of his chin. “I watch and read the
news. You’re better looking in person.”

For
some reason, I find his comment, or maybe it’s how he delivers it, disarming,
and I laugh. “Usually, I hear, ‘I thought you were taller.’ I’ll definitely
take better looking.” I change the subject off of my appearance. “You here for
fight night?”

“I
am.” He nods. “Drake invited me after we started talking about MMA versus
boxing at practice.”

Samuel
interrupts, “You can enter now.” He opens the heavy door—probably not heavy for him—allowing
us access to the First Family.

Finding Infinity

Falling Into Infinity

From Now Until Infinity

♥ Favorite Places

About Layne

Layne Harper taught Tom Brady how to throw a football, and she’s E.L. James’ red room consultant. In her spare time, she travels the world with Angelina Jolie helping orphans. Not really, but it sounds more exciting than her normal life. She’s mastered the art of takeout dining, turning down the volume right before the singer says a bad word, and disguising wine in a thermos for evening soccer games. She can make a snow cone that rivals the best in the world. Layne writes constantly in her head, on napkins, her kids’ homework, or whatever is close by. If you want to know more about Layne, check out an interview that she did with The SubClub Books.